


generation why

by doriangrays (orphan_account)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Pining, Roommates, vive le revolution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 12:53:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18344087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/doriangrays
Summary: An intern by day and the notorious vigilante Mayhem by night, Yuta navigates falling for his roommate Sicheng as well as fighting his archnemesis, Neo City's golden hero Winwin.





	generation why

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to thank my amazing beta, [ry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realllyreilly/pseuds/realllyreilly) as well as the fire extinguishers groupchat in twitter. Love u guys 💞💕💓💗💕💞💓💞💖❤  
> Title from Conan Gray's [Generation Why](https://youtu.be/entVpj_IT6M)

Sicheng was, by all looks of things, not very pleased when he returned home, slamming the door shut, dropping his briefcase on the ground, and practically kicking his shoes off before he rearranges them on the shoe rack with a resounding thud.

 

Yuta looks up from his book, readjusting the ice pack on his face before he calls out, “Rough night?”

 

Wiping a hand down his face, Sicheng gives him a tight smile and a frustrated nod. “Just idiots at work. You didn't have to wait up for me.”

 

Yuta grins, even though it turns into a grimace a moment later as he feels the barely healed split on his lip tear again. “But I wanted to,” he bit out.

 

Sicheng's impatient glower replaces itself with a look of concern as he absorbs the sight before him, Yuta sprawled out on the sofa with a cold compress against his face, dried blood congealing at the corner of his lip. “Are you okay?” he asks.

 

“All good,” Yuta replies. “Don't worry your pretty head about me, Cheng.”

 

The other shakes his head, and Yuta's stomach drops with guilt as he notes the dark tinges under his eyes and the blood trickling from Sicheng's nose. “Blood. Your nose,” he points out.

 

Sicheng reaches up, feels the dampness, and then absently says, “Shit, I hadn't realized.”

 

Yuta swings his legs onto the ground. “I'll go get you a towel.”

 

“No. Stay right where you are,” Sicheng ordered, tone brokering no room for arguments. “I can do it myself, you're injured, oh my god--”

 

“Sicheng, please,” Yuta tries to flash his most reassuring smile. “I'm fine. I'm not dying. I got this.” He staggers on towards the bathroom, Sicheng following behind closely, and they crowd themselves into the closetlike space.

 

Yuta sets down his ice pack and hears Sicheng bite down a gasp. “Yuta…” he mutters, bringing a hand up as if to touch his cheek before curling his fingers in on themselves.

 

Under the bathroom lights, the bruise looks even more swollen than he'd imagined. It looks like the reason why people call bruises shiners, skin stretched taut over bulging flesh that was darkening by the second.

 

“Bar fight tonight?” Sicheng asks quietly as Yuta turns away from him and turns on the faucet instead, wetting the corner of a towel.

 

He nods, nearly forgetting the cover story he always gave Sicheng due to his proximity. “Yeah.” His voice sounds unused and scratchy as he grasps Sicheng by his chin and daubs up the blood. “Patrons got out of control,” he adds for good measure.

 

He knows by rote now the moment when Sicheng's eyes dip down to his lips because of the way his heartbeat hitches in this chest. He knows the way Sicheng reaches to the counter and then brings the ice pack to Yuta's cheek, a gentle pressure soothing away the dull ache. He knows the way they keep dancing around each other, always at a distance, in choreographed steps-- get close, but never too close.

 

Yuta knows if this were a drama or a film, there would be that tipping point, where one day, a kind comment or a stray smile would be the metaphorical last straw on the theoretical camel's back. Where one of the two would burst out the anguished love declaration and then they would kiss and make up and live happily ever after.

 

And though he feels the longing in both of them so potently he thinks he can breathe it in with the air in the bathroom, he resolves never to be the one to do so.

 

Because instead of breaking up a bar fight like his roommate thinks he's been doing, Yuta has been robbing people and getting pummeled into brick walls by what he calls “dogs that serve the bourgeoisie” and what the general public calls “superheroes”. Sicheng deserves someone he could count on to come home to, someone who isn’t hated by the general population of Neo City.

 

Ever since superpowered humans had walked amongst the common people in such openness, there’s been governments trying to by turn suppress or else harness their powers. Right now, the city is trying to endorse superheroes and work with them in order to allegedly protect and serve the people-- really the elite class-- flashy and showy and ineffective towards actual change.

 

Yuta doesn't have an idea against the concept of superheroes per se, it's just that the difference between the deeds done in theory and practice don't hold up too well. Sort of like law enforcement. Or, exactly like law enforcement in that they never gave two flying fucks about the poor and disadvantaged and only spared their superhuman abilities for fame and as mouthpieces and fists of politicians. Power corrupts, and superpowers corrupt superciliously.

 

Yuta has always been a fan of direct action. Diogenes of Sinope was right; the only place to spit in a rich man's home was his face.

 

But since there was no one in residence at the home of the CEO he had been raiding earlier that night and Yuta preferred not to leave DNA evidence that could track him to _Nakamoto Yuta, age 24, lives with roommate Dong Sicheng at 1027 Cherry Avenue, apartment number 16A_ , he merely spray-painted abstractly across all the surfaces he could have reached, tangoing through the mansion room after room, splattering paint across expensive silk sheets and makeup palettes and designer suits alike. He then stole a bit of money from the safe before he left, whistling, a bag of cash slung over his shoulder in quintessential robber style.

 

Of course, he didn't get far. A whooshing sound reaches his ears, and the next moment, in front of him alighted a figure in white like an avenging angel of biblical lore.

 

“Mayhem, what are you doing?” the other asks the moment he touches down, voice booming, hands on his hips.

 

“Ah, Win, I was wondering when you'd show up,” Yuta feels himself grinning despite himself. This is a familiar routine and he's already anticipating the show to follow.

 

“Enough talking, Mayhem,” Winwin orders, voice stern behind his mask. “Hand over the cash that you stole.”

 

Like all of the other heroes, Winwin was filled with such a ridiculous amount of self-righteousness that Yuta wondered why his chest didn't puff out further. Also like other heroes, Winwin regarded Mayhem and the various vigilantes bold enough to do their actual jobs as the scum of the earth, meant to be eradicated. And as the public's darling superhero _de jour_ , it meant he was unbearable and boring and believed with his entire heart the propaganda put out by the elites.

 

“Come and get it first,” Yuta teases, swinging the bag back and forth in his hands.

 

Winwin hesitates for a beat.

 

“What? Are you scared of me?”

 

“I'm not scared by anything so petty and insignificant,” Winwin says before lunging.

 

Yuta was a bit hurt by this, honestly. He's Mayhem, the masked villain or vigilante, depending on who you asked, who likes to leave rich houses in absolute, pun intended, mayhem, cash gone and property damage abound in the amount of paint he spilled. He put effort into perfecting his style for Chrissakes, that's his signature the way Tenlives left claw marks over everything and then made off with the family jewels; or how Haechan liked to torch things into cinders.

 

Unfortunately for him, his genetics made him predisposed towards sports, but not towards the litheness and agility and all other abilities of felines, nor did it allow him to generate fire from his fingertips. This meant he was just a fairly athletic human in a special suit designed for him by a man only a year older than him despite the doctorate in a warehouse that's been converted into a lab.

 

Kun trusted him, though. Yuta would surely hope so, if the tabloids’ proclamation of Kun’s removal from the list of “Wealthiest and Most Eligible Bachelors Under 30” last year that were connected to said doctor were any indication, and Kun was also, amongst other things, the director of the League of Vigilantes, which made him the final authority on the matter. Yuta had joined this organization after having nabbed a number and a business card from an unwitting victim of his pickpocketing (That had been Kahei. When he showed up on her heels at the meeting of vigilantes for the first time, her eyes started glowing and she'd lunged at him in recognition. Hopefully, they’ve both gotten over it), following years of developing skills in petty thievery and scamming sugar daddies after dropping out of college, no longer able to afford the crushing student debts. Kun had grilled him and then did a background check, making him wait three extra hours before the Director had emerged again, shaking Yuta's hand with a, “welcome to the team, Taeil will give you a suit.”

 

That was that, and he's been part of the team ever since.

 

Legally speaking, Yuta was an intern at Kun’s company and a part-time bartender. In reality, though, he’s part of Kun’s covert taskforce who scoured the city doing what the inept police force should have been doing-- cracking down on corrupt officials as well as protecting the local disadvantaged neighborhoods.

 

In the back of his mind he thanks Dr. Moon for reinforcing his suit to withstand impacts right before he gets sucker punched across his face, the force of the blow making his head ring.

 

Yuta staggers back a few paces and laughs. “C'mon, Win, is that all you've got?”

 

“You _thief_ ,” the hero replies.

 

Winwin flies and has good endurance and is also quite acrobatic. Yuta knows this from years of fighting him. At the time they first both met, it was a night much like this one. The only difference had been their ages and statuses-- Yuta was the new recruit sent to distribute manifestos to city residents, Winwin a superhero fresh out of the academy. Yuta had tackled Winwin, the other flying up into the air to try to rid himself of the vigilante who'd attached to him like a limpet.

 

When they'd gotten high enough over the buildings, Yuta had tossed all the pamphlets into the wind, letting them all rain down on the city. He then let go of Winwin and let himself fall, engaging his parachute last second, just enough to make a landing before he cuts the strings and then runs.

 

Ever since, he's been hailed as the villain of the city. Mayhem incarnate, upending the natural order as the wealthy and powerful knew it. Ever since then, Winwin has chased after him with furor, determined to either arrest him or else otherwise thwart and make an example of him.

 

The movements are nearly like a dance ingrained into his memory by now. Winwin kicks at him, Yuta dodges out of the way. Yuta lands a blow across his nose, Winwin seethes and splits his lip in retaliation.

 

What a violently perfect waltz they perform for the world, a routine perfected over the years. The stage is a busy street. The back alley of a bank. The stock exchange building. Right now, they pas de deux across a moonlit estate, like the scene in the ballet where Albrecht finds Giselle again. Winwin floats light as air while Yuta is bound by the earth, but at the end of this round, with the lake to his back and Winwin hovering in front, Yuta is the one who melts away into the underbrush.

 

Winwin always lets him go, and Yuta has understood since the first moment he broached the topic of his ridiculously easy escapes with Kun.

 

“Panem et circenses,” Kun had explained. “Bread and circuses. This is all an act they need to put on for Neo City. They need someone to cheer on, someone to hate. That’s Winwin and you and your little animosity covered by the media outlets. Meanwhile politicians and the elites steal money from out their pockets.”

 

Yuta knows how pickpocketing works. He's an expert at it. Make people look the other way, distracted, while you take their things.

 

He finds it distinctly unpleasant that he was condemned for trying to make ends meet while no one batted an eye at all the corruption and the stealing in the higher levels.

 

Yuta slips away, quickly strips off his suit at the warehouse, handing it off to Dr. Moon along with the assets stolen, and then jogs home in civilian clothing, head down. He washes off gingerly, best he could, and then presses the ice pack to his own cheek. An hour later, past midnight, Sicheng returns.

 

* * *

 

The early morning news blares as Yuta strolls into the kitchen the next day, the headline “MAYHEM STRIKES AGAIN” emblazoned across the channel Sicheng’s set the TV to. A reporter rapidly covers the scene of crime, either standing just in front of it or else photoshopped in, listing off the amount the property damage is estimated to amount to, the amount stolen, the way the hero has tried to stop him, but Yuta is _just too dastardly_.

 

“Morning,” Sicheng greets him blearily, a listless hand stirring at his porridge as he watches the report of the damage and the fight with Winwin.

 

Yuta knows that Sicheng, as a police detective, is definitely pissed by the story. In spite of that, Yuta can't help but hide a smile to himself behind his coffee mug at his handiwork. “Morning.”

 

“Are you feeling any better?” Sicheng asks, tearing his eyes away from the TV screen. The frown that had marred his face just moments before at the notices smooths over rapidly as he scans Yuta's face.

 

The bruise has yellowed, now nearly faded. Yuta nods, touching it gingerly. “It's mostly better now. Cheng, I should be asking you that. How's your nose?”

 

“No big deal,” Sicheng shrugged. A watch beeps; Sicheng checks the time and then clicks off the TV. “Gotta get going,” he said apologetically, standing from the sofa and bringing his bowl over to the sink.

 

“Don't stay too late, come back safe, yeah?” Yuta finds himself saying, grabbing Sicheng a blazer out of the coat closet.

 

Sicheng turns to nod at him as he puts on his shoes and grabs his filing briefcase. “I will, don't worry.”

 

How fucking domestic this was, as if Yuta were the lipsticked 50s Stepford wife and Sicheng were his husband going off to work. All it missed was a prolonged kiss on the mouth as he straightens out his roommate's blazer.

 

“See you tonight,” Sicheng says, waving. “Have fun at the internship and be more careful on your bar shift, please, Yuta.”

 

The door swings shut behind him and then Yuta's phone beeps.

 

**[Kun]**

Come to HQ, please. We got a new recruit.

 

**[Sent]**

Omw

 

Yuta puts on a bucket hat and a face mask for good measure before he steps out the door, making a brisk pace downtown, hitting the river and then following it downstream to where it widens. On the waterfront are high rises and office buildings that transition to warehouses.

 

Glancing around to make sure no one's been following him, Yuta turns left onto a side road, following it up a surprisingly pristine alleyway to a dead end. There, he lays his hand up against the wall where his heart would be.

 

A beep and a whirring sound later, the brick wall slides down and then he steps into the dark hallway. The door shuts behind him.

 

Like dominoes, lights flicker on down the hall as a disembodied voice says, “Welcome back, Mayhem.”

 

“Doctor Moon,” Yuta replies, grinning. “How are you?”

 

“You know, the usual,” the scientist replied from the built-in sound systems in the walls as Yuta continues down the hallway. “Kun wants to take every single stray we meet under his wings. I think we might have to ask Miroh City’s chapter if they want to switch names with us, or we might have to change ours to _Les Amis_ soon.”

 

“The more the merrier, though, right? More people seeing the error of the ways of capitalism and all that,” Yuta hums as he reaches a second door. Here, he takes off his hat, sweeps his hair off his forehead, leans forward, and offers up his eye. A light scans it, and then the door clicks open.

 

“Yeah,” Dr. Moon makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “Guess that makes sense, Kun is Enjolras and I’m Grantaire. Hyuckie would be Gavroche.”

 

“Aw, Taeil, you’re not an ugly alcoholic though,” Yuta replies.

 

“But Kun’s my husband and if he’d correspond to Enjolras as our leader, I’m just the hapless lab partner who got dragged along and then started seeing the light of his ideals and his inner soul.”

 

“You’re so in love it makes me wanna puke sometimes,” Yuta mock whines.

 

“Ha!” Taeil barks out a laugh. “Just wait till _you’re_ in love.”

 

Yuta thinks about a willowy dancer’s figure, full lips and neat brows and slender eyes. He thinks about meeting Sicheng in off-campus housing for the first time his sophomore year of college. His previous roommate had been a senior named Hansol who’d graduated; Yuta had been filled with trepidation at having a new roommate but his fears had been allayed when he heard the front door click open and saw Sicheng walk in. He had been dazzled by Sicheng’s beauty, evident even back then, but it takes him months to get him to open up, and to fall for him properly. He thinks about how hard he’d cried, and how tightly Sicheng had held onto him those nights he hit his nadir. How Sicheng reassured him there would be other paths in life when he’d lost his scholarship and had to drop out. He thinks about how Sicheng celebrated with him when he got the “internship”. How he celebrated with Sicheng when he graduated.

 

They’ve known each other and lived together for nearly four years now. Yuta wonders when the scale shifted from the teasing jabs and fondness to the way he grasped onto every second with Sicheng so desperately, like he was a miser and moments with him were pennies scattering away. He just knew it happened when they were celebrating their birthdays together-- Yuta was turning twenty one, Sicheng turning nineteen-- with a dinner out at a Korean barbeque restaurant. When Sicheng had lifted his chopsticks to Yuta’s face, miming for him to open his mouth and eat off of his plate, he’d felt that warm rush that had nothing to do with soju in his veins. And then later, when they stumbled out into the streets, breaths coming out in clouds in the October air, cheeks pink and stomachs full, hands interlocked, Yuta saw the city lights glowing off of Sicheng’s hair and thought to himself, _this must be love_.

 

“What about me? Which character would I be?” Yuta questions as he reaches the final door, deigning not to respond to Taeil’s comment.

 

“Hm,” comes humming from the other end. “Maybe Combeferre?”

 

“That's not fair,” Yuta mock-complains as he takes the cheek swab and sets it back on the glass dish. “I die.”

 

“We all do, genius,” the scientist replies before the door clicks open. “But we're not _Les Amis de l’ABCs_. Come on in.”

 

The sliding door makes a click, and then there’s the noise of decompression as Yuta steps into a pristine, lab-white hallway.

 

“Third door on your left, go in, no need to knock and we’ll be there,” Dr. Moon tells him. There’s indistinct chatter in the background, and Yuta hears Taeil hum a few bars from _Do You Hear the People Sing?_

 

“Got it,” Yuta nods. The entrance whirs and shuts behind him and he sets off down the hall, following the directions Taeil gave him, pushing open the glass door.

 

At the head of the table sits Qian Kun, in all his suited splendor, sharply cut in black against the polished white of the room.

 

If Yuta had met him on the street, he would have mostly definitely, on the basis of looks alone, hated Kun on sight and then immediately put him on his “to-rob” list.

 

But he does know, and he knows about how Kun lives in a studio apartment in the same general area as Yuta himself because he disdains the flaunting of  wealth, and Kun’s why the quality of life has gone up in the poorer areas of Neo City, giving away money with abandon and funnelling the rest into community outreach. He knows how Qian Industries shifted from its original steel production into scientific research and technology development, most of the products of which are exported and distributed to third world countries at low prices and no faustian bargains attached to the help.

 

Kun is the actual definition of a philanthropist in Yuta’s eyes, not those vultures who hold one lavish gala a year for “charity” and then go back to partying in yachts and complaining about tax brackets.

 

Kun is also gesturing for Yuta to take a seat across from Tenlives, or Ten for short, or Chittaphon as his birth certificate spells out. He thinks the shapeshifter looks decided more catlike than usual today as he waggles fingers in greetings towards Yuta, a smile curving his lips.

 

Out of everyone at this table, Yuta thinks, looking around, only he and Kun are what could tentatively be called “normal”. Everyone else is superpowered. There’s Haechan, or Donghyuck, with his pyrokinesis. Ten turns into an actual panther sometimes. Hyejoo, known and feared as Olivia, can control shadows. Yves-- Sooyoung-- can create phantom images of herself. Kahei, or Vivi, as she’s reported on by news channels, is a cyborg.

 

“Where’s the new kid?” Yuta leans over to ask Ten.

 

“Hm?” Ten asks absently, running his hands through his own hair repeatedly like a grooming cat. “Oh, Taeil’s gone to get him.”

 

Everyone sits in formal silence till the door clicks open again and in walks a short-statured and unassuming looking man in a lab coat, followed by a teenager who’s probably around Haechan or Olivia’s age.

 

“Everyone, this is the newest member of our team,” announces Taeil, before sitting down on the edge of the table next to Kun. “Why don’t you introduce yourself?”

 

The kid nods and then waves with a bright smile that vaguely reminds Yuta of Taeil himself. “Hi, everyone, I’m Yangyang. I’m really fast.”

 

Polite hellos are returned and Hyuck makes Olivia pull out the chair between them and pats it down for Yangyang to take a seat.

 

“Since Hyuck is going to kindly offer to introduce all of us to Yangyang,” Kun states, standing, “I’ll get started with our monthly report, then.”

 

Yuta listens idly with one ear as Kun distributes the money they’d stolen between multiple charities and hospitals in the area, and then keeps the other honed as Hyuck chatters away in an undertone.

 

“That’s Kun, he’s really rich, he’s the director of the League,” he says. “Or this chapter of it, at least. Miroh City has one, I moved here from Elyxion and they had a league, too. But they dissolved it because everything was going the way they wanted, villains defeated, all the rich hoarders run out of town, heroes and vigilantes teaming up. Peace, prosperity, justice for all, blah blah blah. Neo City can’t relate.” Hyuck sighs.

 

“Why move if it was so nice there?” Yangyang asks in an undertone.

 

“It was boring and I was out of a job less than five months after my powers awakened. So Jongin-hyung convinced them to transfer me to Neo City cause I wanted to be in on the action.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Yangyang nods, engrossed. “So, you can shoot fire from your hands? That’s pretty neat, what’s everyone else like?”

 

“Oh!” the boy exclaims. “This is Hyejoo, she goes by Olivia out in the field, we’re all the same age basically.”

 

“I control shadows.” the aforementioned girl offers

 

“She sure does, Yangyang. Moving on, that’s Sooyoung, Yves, a-k-a, like you know, Yves Saint Laurent, she can make copies of herself but they aren’t tangible but, yeah. Kahei is in the corner charging right now-- she’s a cyborg. Call her Vivi though. Or Vivian is fine too. You’ve already met Taeil, he’s the mad scientist, and Ten turns into a cat--”

 

“A panther,” Ten corrected.

 

“A cat,” Donghyuck continued, ignoring Ten’s hiss of “You little brat” before his eyes alight on Yuta.

 

“And last but not least, that’s Yuta,” Hyuck finishes.

 

There’s a space of expectant silence before Yangyang asks the question Yuta has always dreaded and felt annoyed about-- “What does he do? What’s his power?”

 

“Oh, Yuta? He’s normal, but don’t underestimate him. He can go one on one with Winwin and still come out alive.”

 

A beat, a pause. “With _Winwin_ ?” There’s disbelief in Yangyang’s voice. “ _The_ Winwin?”

 

“The one and only,” nods the pyro. “He’s the face of our organization right now. The big bad. The public enemy. Kun said it’s his turn on the Undesirable Number One machine.”

 

“Fifteen minutes of fame,” Yuta waves it off when Yangyang directs the awestruck eyes towards him instead.

 

* * *

 

When everyone’s leaving and filing out the door, Taeil says, “Yuta, a few moments, please.”

 

Yuta pauses in standing up, and then nods in comprehension as Taeil beckons him out the back door of the conference room, leading him down further into the ground, till they reach a steel door that would have looked quite fitting on a bomb shelter.

 

“I heard what Yangyang asked,” Taeil says quietly as he presses his palm to the scanner. “Are you okay?”

 

“It’s stupid to get hung up over it, don’t you think?” Yuta shrugged as the door stated, “ _Access granted._ ”

 

Taeil gestures him in. “That didn’t answer my question.”

 

With a sigh, Yuta waits for Taeil to lead him. “It bothers me a little, I guess. I keep on feeling like I’m on this team just for pity and I’m not pulling any real weight.”

 

Taeil motions him back behind a white line and then steps onto a decal of footprints on the ground, before saying, “Requesting access.”

 

A whirring sounds and a cross-hatching of lasers overlay themselves across Taeil’s frame. “ _Welcome, Doctor Moon Taeil. Access granted._ ”

 

“Come on in, then,” Taeil mutters as the light show ends and the padded lab door opens.

 

Yuta slips in after him, the door locking shut, and then takes a seat on the hospital bed, watching as Taeil moves around, hooking up machines to record his vitals.

 

“About what you were saying earlier,” Taeil says, tightening the heart rate monitor on his wrist, “I don’t believe it, and I don’t believe you mean it.”

 

Yuta swallows a knot in his throat. “Is it wrong to be bothered by this?”

 

Taeil shakes his head. “Do you know how many nights Kun’s thought of giving up on all of you? He says, ‘what the hell am I doing’, and ‘I can’t understand them. I’m not like them’.”

 

“But he doesn’t,” Yuta replies.

 

“He doesn’t,” Taeil hums in agreement. “We all feel like we fall short sometimes, but the fact that you tried-- that’s enough for all of us. It should be enough for you, too.”

 

Yuta nods. “I know.”

 

“How’s the healing serum working, by the way?” Taeil asks. “I saw the news about your fight. Where did you get injured?”

 

Yuta points to his left cheek. “Pretty nasty bruise there. You saw the beginnings of it before I left last night.”

 

Taeil inspects it, muttering, “It’s almost like it never happened,” before he presses the pads of his fingers to the spot. “Does it hurt?”

 

“No.”

 

He applies more pressure. “How about now?”

 

Again, a negative.

 

It’s only when Taeil’s practically digging his fingers into Yuta’s face that Yuta winces in pain, and Taeil lets go, satisfied.

 

“So I need to figure out a way to enhance the serum so it prevents injuries from getting to their most severe before the healing response is triggered,” Taeil mutters to himself, finding a clipboard and jotting down a few notes. “This is already in your bloodstream but it's a temporary formula. It'll wear off in a few weeks but I'll hopefully have the permanent serum ready for you by then.”

 

“Hopefully,” Yuta echoes. “Will that be all?” He asks.

 

“Yeah, let's disconnect you, all right?” Taeil says, unplugging his vitals from the readers. “All good?” He inquires of the other man as he sits up.

 

Yuta nods. “Yeah,” he responds. “I'm fine.”

 

Taeil goes through all the various and tedious scans and identifications again as they head back up, and it's when Yuta sees the wedding band on Taeil's finger that he remembers.

 

“Taeil, how did you and Kun manage to make it work out?”

 

“Hm?” Taeil murmured absently. “I think it was because we both had the same convictions and we loved each other. It made no sense we wouldn't stand by each other through this whole thing.”

 

“Ah. I see,” Yuta nodded.

 

“Who is it?” Taeil asks him as he paces down the hallway.

 

Yuta frowns before he confesses, “My roommate.”

 

Taeil looks troubled but offers Yuta an encouraging hug nonetheless as he sends him out the door. “Just think on what I said.”

 

“I will,” Yuta replies, walking out into the alleyway again.

 

* * *

 

Being a vigilante didn't just mean robbing rich people blind and fighting with Winwin now and then. It also meant he acted as an actual protector of the neighborhood, and in this case, Yuta just strolled into the convenience store, sitting up on the counter as the cashier, pale, wan, and shaking like a leaf, counts out money from the register.

 

“Hey, what are you doing?” Yuta drawls at the robber who's currently shifting his eyes and gun back and forth between the cashier and this strange new man outfitted entirely in black with his face concealed.

 

“Robbing a store, what do you _think_ it looks like?” the masked man said.

 

“Can you not,” Yuta deadpans, though it's obviously futile since no can see beyond his own getup anyways. He plants a foot against the robber's chest and shoves, sending the man sprawling into the middle of the chips aisle.

 

To the cashier, he tersely says, “Get away from the store and call the police.”

 

The younger fortunately doesn't need to be told twice, running out of the store.

 

The robber picks up the handgun again and uses it like a club, taking a swing at Yuta with it. Yuta dodges and kicks at his ankles.

 

People think fighting a professional is hard, and maybe he's biased because of how easy he and Winwin flow together, but Yuta would beg to differ and assert that the inexperienced fighters are the most dangerous. They don't know rules or forms, just raw desperation, and this man thrashes like a fish as Yuta tries to subdue him.

 

“God, damnit,” Yuta pants, dodging a fist. “You're out here threatening people and now you're trying to fight me? Are you kidding?”

 

A cool voice says, “Maybe if you let the real heroes handle this one, Mayhem.”

 

Yuta's temper flares as he turns around, keeping one arm locked around the robber's torso. “What are ‘real heros’ then, pray tell?”

 

Winwin sounds bored. “Just let me handle him,” he says. “I've got more experience dealing with people with guns than you have anyways.”

 

As if the man suddenly remembers that he has a gun, there's a click and then Yuta feels the barrel pressed to the side of his head.

 

“Now you've done it, Win. Sorta a coward though. Letting other people do the dirty work of finishing me off?” Yuta tries to keep his voice steady and not freak out about how he might die in the next few seconds if he's not careful.

 

Winwin makes a soft noise of consternation. “I could have murdered you in a heartbeat but I didn't. I was gonna arrest you and help rehabilitate you into society instead,” he almost sounds angry. “I never wanted to kill you.”

 

“Could've fooled me,” Yuta snaps back. “You're not the one with a gun barrel against your head.”

 

“Mayhem, please,” Winwin sighs.

 

“While this is very entertaining, I do need some money, so if you would please just open that cash register and give me all the bills inside, that would be great,” the robber chuckled. “Or else your boyfriend's dying, Winwin.”

 

“Not my boyfriend!” Both of them exclaim in unison, and it's through the indignation that Yuta has the strength to wrestle free, feeling the kick of the gun as the bullet leaves its chamber, the thudding of the projectile against the wall as Yuta hits the ground and then rolls back up.

 

He lunges on the man from behind, trying to twist his gun arm back, meanwhile Winwin grabs the man's wrist and tries to pry the weapon out of it.

 

It's a mistake. As they struggle and Yuta finally hits the robber on the back of the head, knocking him out, the man's finger twitches on the trigger. There's another resounding bang before the robber slumps to the ground in front of them.

 

Yuta lets him drop like a sack of potatoes and Winwin releases his hold on his arm as well.

 

On the waist of his white suit is a splotch of red, and Yuta looks up at Winwin, stricken as he sees it, feeling guilt pool uncomfortably in his chest.

 

“I'm sorry, Winwin--” he says, but the hero merely shakes his head, dashing out the shop.

 

Yuta follows after him into the parking lot before the man, with an ungainly leap, alights into the air with none of his usual swanlike grace, speeding away into the horizon.

 

Yuta takes some duct tape to tie the robber up for the police to find, kicking the gun well out of reach, before he takes off in a brisk run as well.

 

* * *

 

It's around one in the morning and Yuta feels his eyelids starting to droop as he waits on Sicheng. The entire gas station fiasco had ended about two hours ago and Yuta had since then returned his suit to Taeil and then gone home and showered.

 

There were only a few scratches today, nothing to warrant an inspection by Taeil, and Yuta is reading through Animal Farm once more as he looks back up at the door with every small noise coming from outside.

 

It's at three that his phone starts ringing, and Sicheng's face pops up as the caller ID.

 

Yuta picks up on the first ring. “Hello?”

 

“Yuta,” comes panting from the other end of the line.

 

“Cheng?” Yuta asks carefully. “Where are you? It's so late, are you okay?”

 

“Yuta, I've been--” Sicheng lets out a hiss. “I've been shot.”

 

“What??” Yuta bolts upright and scrambles for his bike lock keys and his sneakers. “Cheng, where is it, how much blood, where are you? Do you need an ambulance?”

 

A heavy breath from the nose is his response and then Sicheng whispers, “I think it's just a graze but…”

 

“Shit, Cheng,” Yuta exhales as he descends the stairs out into back entrance of the apartment complex, unlocking his bike. “Tell me where you are, stay with me, I'm coming for you.”

 

“I'll be fine,” Sicheng insists, even as his voice barely carries like a whisper.

 

Yuta plugs his earbuds into the phone and then sticks it in his hoodie pocket, using the microphone and headphones to listen to and communicate with Sicheng. “Babe, where are you right now? Do you know?”

 

“I'm by the-- ah, the alley of the grocery store.”

 

Yuta begins pedalling. “The one down by the radio station?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, that's the one,” Sicheng mumbles.

 

“Cheng, stay with me,” Yuta breathes as he keeps on the path, legs kicking furiously, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest.

 

Someone hurt Sicheng, someone hurt his roommate and best friend and the man he was in love with--

 

Yuta skids to a stop in front of the darkened storefront and then leans his bike against the wall, racing into the alley and taking out his earbuds. “Sicheng!”

 

Illuminated by the faint residue of streetlights is a figure slumped over behind the dumpster, and Yuta's heart thuds. He disconnects from the call and then races to the figure's side, turning them over. Sicheng's face tilts up towards him, drawn and pale, and for a moment Yuta fears the worst. He nearly experiences the sound of his own heart cracking before he feels cold fingers clutch onto his jacket.

 

“God, Sicheng,” he practically sobs as he searches for a pulse and then finds a weak kick in the arteries at the base of his neck, “I thought you were dead.”

 

“I'm not,” Sicheng responds faintly. “I'm here, Yuta, don't let me go, never let me go.”

 

Yuta sniffs in response and then lifts Sicheng up, propping him onto one shoulder and dragging him out of the alley, Sicheng limping the best he could but Yuta mostly carrying him. He sets Sicheng on the passenger rack and then climbs on, wrapping the other's arms around him snugly so he wouldn't fall.

 

He pedals back to the apartment and gently carries Sicheng up to their rooms before he tucks him in and calls a number.

 

“Taeil. Can you come here please?”

 

A yawn and rustling from the other side of the line. “Hold up, give me a moment. What happened?”

 

“My roommate got shot. Probably while on duty,” Yuta whispers, careful not to wake Sicheng. “I don't wanna take him to the hospital.”

 

“He’s a cop, you very well could, and rest assured they’d take care of him,” Taeil points out. Despite this, there’s the sound of an engine starting in the background.

 

The doctor is here in nearly seventeen minutes, the ticking of Sicheng’s watch keeping time with Yuta’s own heartbeat. A thousand seconds. One hundred fifty breaths taken.

 

There's light knocking at the door and Yuta goes to open it, leading Taeil into Sicheng's bedroom.

 

Taeil casts the sheets aside and surveys the splotches of red before he says, “I'm going to need his shirt off for this. Is that fine?”

 

Yuta nods, undoing the buttons with trembling hands and parting the fabric to feverish mumbling from the younger, too afraid to lay his hands against Sicheng's skin.

 

Taeil sends him into the bathroom with a terse order of “damp towel,” and Yuta complies, returning to find Sicheng on his side, Taeil having pulled the sleeve off of his arm.

 

With practiced hands, Taeil wipes away the smear of blood tainting Sicheng's side before zeroing in on the injury- a gash, no wider than Yuta's thumb, against the curve of Sicheng's waist.

 

“This might sting,” Taeil warns, though it doesn't seem like Sicheng can hear him. Yuta reaches for Sicheng's hand as the doctor opens a package of rubbing alcohol and then daubs into the shallow concavity.

 

Sicheng lets out a cry and Yuta tightens his grip, smoothing back Sicheng's hair, whispering “shhhh” into the crook of his neck as he leans down.

 

“It hurts,” Sicheng mumbles with a slight hiss as Taeil cleans up the wound.

 

“I know,” Yuta replies, holding onto Sicheng with all the affection he could bear to let slip in front of Taeil. Sicheng wasn't a very vulnerable person. He wasn't someone who loved physical contact or affection if he wasn't the initiator, and despite all those three years of declaring Yuta his best friend, in those moments of self-reflection, he always realizes just how little Sicheng divulged of himself. So for him to reach out and lean his head against Yuta's shoulder as Taeil stitches him back up makes Yuta's heart flutter a bit faster, even as Taeil casts Yuta a dubious glance while he prescribes bed rest and electrolytes. Sicheng nuzzles further into Yuta and he tries to tell himself this was just desperation for physical contact and comfort and warmth. That he could have been anyone and Sicheng would have probably reacted the same way.

 

Taeil lets himself out, and Yuta stays there, seated next to Sicheng's bedside, fingers encased in Sicheng's own till their breathing evens out and they fall asleep together.

 

* * *

 

Yuta wakes up with his back screaming in protest, and he emerges from sleep face to face with an angel.

 

It's actually Sicheng, but close enough. Sicheng _is_ an angel in Yuta's eyes, after all, and Yuta longs to admire him further before Sicheng shifts and then lets out a groan.

 

“How are you feeling?” Yuta immediately asks.

 

Sicheng grimaces. “Like shit,” he replies, his voice a lot steadier than it had been the previous night. “Feels like I've been run over.”

 

“Actually, you were shot,” Yuta quips. “But yeah.”

 

Sicheng lets out wheezy laugh before his face contorts in pain again and he stops, clutching at the spot right above his bandage. “Shit, shit, fuck.”

 

“I'll get you some water and ibuprofen,” Yuta offers, sitting up straight and then standing, ignoring the creak of his back and the dull ache in his muscles, waddling into the kitchen and then coming back with two pills and a glass.

 

“Thanks,” Sicheng says gratefully as Yuta helps to prop up pillows for him and arrange him upright. He's still in his ruined shirt, one sleeve tugged off, and Yuta can see the way his chest shakes from the cold.

 

“Can you put on a shirt?” Yuta asks him.

 

Sicheng shrugs as he swallows down the pills and then practically the entire glass of water. “I can try. Bring me a pair of basketball shorts, too?”

 

Yuta opens the drawer to rummage before finding an oversized red shirt, one he'd gifted Sicheng for a birthday a few years back, and a pair of loose shorts. “Here,” he says, turning around to give Sicheng some privacy, pulling his phone out of his jacket to check his messages.

 

**[Kun]**

Taeil told me what happened

You don't have to come in today

Good excuse to show Yangyang the ropes around here anyways.

 

**[Sent]**

Thank you.

 

**[Kun]**

Just be careful, Yuta.

 

**[Sent]**

I know.

 

He swallows at the implications of the message before Sicheng clears his throat shyly behind him. “Could you help?”

 

Yuta turns around and there's Sicheng with an embarrassed pout and blush, arm halfway through the hole of the shirt. Unable to stop the fond smile from growing across his face, Yuta sits down next to him on the bed and then helps to hold the sleeve open as Sicheng guides his arm through gingerly. He smooths down Sicheng's hair while the other rearranges his shirt down over his torso.

 

“Need any help with pants, too?” Yuta asks him.

 

Sicheng shakes his head. “You've already done enough as is, Yuta,” he declines. “It’s fine. Don't you have work today, though?”

 

Yuta shakes his head, surprised Sicheng would remember. “I texted my manager and I got a day off to take care of you.”

 

Sicheng pauses with the shorts in his hands. “Oh. That was… nice of you,” he finishes. “Thanks, Yuta.”

 

“It's no problem,” he shifted on his feet. “I'll go and change and you can put the shorts on and after that you can call in sick to work and we'll have a pajama day,” he suggested, brightening.

 

Sicheng frowns. “I shouldn't even be missing work…”

 

“Aw, come on,” Yuta says teasingly, “how much impact would one single police detective missing work do anyways? It's not like policemen do much except for protect the rich.”

 

Something flashes across Sicheng's face, making him look downright annoyed with Yuta. “That's not really a joke. Some policemen are definitely crappy but I know so many who aren't. And I always try to help out the community. You can't just say that.”

 

“It's not a personal attack against you, Cheng,” Yuta replies, shaking his head as he heads out into the hallway. “You can't deny that the system is corrupt.”

 

He thinks he hears Sicheng murmurs something in agreement, but closes the door behind him and goes to his own room to strip out of his clothes from the night before-- grimy from the alley, a few stains of blood transferring over from Sicheng's shirt, and slept in. He throws on a fresh pair of pajamas and then goes to the kitchen, heating up some porridge and cutting up some salted vegetables and hardboiled eggs. He brought in one bowl first to Sicheng, who looks up at him from playing with a loose thread on his shirt before asking, “Are you mad at me?”

 

“What's there to be mad about?” Yuta responds carefully before he sets the bowl down on the nightstand.

 

“The police thing,” Sicheng started. “I _do_ think you're right, for the record. The force _is_ corrupt and I shouldn't have gotten so defensive.”

 

“But you're not like them, or I wouldn't have been friends with you,” Yuta points out. “As long as you always remember who the police are meant to help and try your best to carry that out, yeah?”

 

“Yeah,” Sicheng nods.

 

“Go eat, I'll be right back with my own bowl,” Yuta says.

 

Five minutes later, they were eating porridge, leaning over opposite ends of the narrow nightstand, heads knocking together every now and then. It elicited giggles from them and Yuta grins at the boy across from him as he finishes up the entire bowl and then leans back with feline contentment, his face glowing, appeased.

 

Yuta can't help but set his spoon down, and lean over, brushing his hands through Sicheng's hair. “You're like a cat,” he finds himself muttering. “So pretty.”

 

“Meow,” Sicheng deadpans.

 

“Pretty kitty,” Yuta teases him.

 

“I could murder you in a heartbeat,” Sicheng warns, even as he grins at the other.

 

“I don't doubt you could,” Yuta responds back easily, though the phrasing makes him slightly uneasy. Is it the threat of violence, no matter how fake it was? Or something subconscious the words triggered?

 

He pushes it to one side, ignoring the feeling of doubt as he says, “Why don't we just watch an anime series together?”

 

“Huh?” Sicheng hums. “Sure. What do you wanna watch? Avatar? Naruto? One Piece?”

 

Yuta feigns a shudder as he goes to look for Sicheng's laptop. “You're so basic, so tasteless. Disgusting. And I raised you better than to call Avatar an anime. Friendship ended with Sicheng, now Qian Kun is my best friend.”

 

“Hey, that's not fair, you know,” Sicheng pouts.

 

Yuta laughs as he hands the laptop over to the younger. “Still love you, though.”

 

The easygoing mood plateaus off into a semi-stilted silence before Sicheng shifts over on the bed. “We can watch whatever it is you want,” he offers, clearing his throat.

 

Yuta sits down next to him, and Sicheng re-orients himself to leave a pocket of space between Yuta and himself as he presses play on where they'd left off on Fullmetal Alchemist.

 

Somewhere along the line, Sicheng's head lolls onto Yuta's shoulder and his breathing evens out, drowsy. Yuta takes the chance and Sicheng's hand in his-- the other makes no move to pull away again, and they let the show play out till the screen shows an “are you still watching?” message and fades out to black.

 

Yuta wakes up with Sicheng tucked into his side, sleeping peacefully.

 

 _This is enough_ , he thinks to himself as he watches the afternoon light refract through the window in peach tinted rainbow, the dimming of the day gradually pulling him back into the arms of sleep. _I get to wake up next to him once. It's enough for me._

 

* * *

 

Sicheng has a party at the station tonight, someone’s birthday or something, and he offers to bring Yuta as his plus one. His _date_ , as Sicheng had called it, before rapidly backtracking, tacking on _between friends_ at the end of his sentence.

 

( _No thanks_ , Yuta had said, ignoring the implications of Sicheng's proposal in favor of his own moral values. _You know you're the only policeman I can stand. Please never throw your own birthday party at the station and celebrate it with me instead_.

 

Sicheng replied, _Fair enough. I'll miss you, though_ , as he got ready, turtleneck and houndstooth coat a fetching combination on him. If Yuta were a weaker man he'd tell Sicheng how pretty he was again with gravity in his voice this time. He doesn't, just pats him on the back and sends him off with what he hopes isn't a dopey smile on his face.)

 

It's three in the morning when he stumbles in through the front door with a tipsy giggle and then immediately latches himself onto Yuta, dozing off in his usual waiting spot.

 

Yuta is jolted awake by the way Sicheng nuzzles his face into his shoulder, lips perilously close to his collarbone and the sudden spike of his heart rate.

 

“Sicheng?” He asks softly, trying to nudge him off gently, but the other man clings to him like a limpet. “Are you okay?”

 

“I'm fine, I'm fine,” the other man huffs. “The drinks didn't start kicking in till right before I left.”

 

“Must be some pretty strong drinks,” Yuta mumbles, ruffling Sicheng’s hair despite himself. The other leans into it with something almost like a purr, and it makes Yuta’s breath catch. “C'mon, let's get you to bed.”

 

“Only if you're there with me,” Sicheng laughs, gazing at him with watery, unfocused eyes.

 

“Oh, Sicheng,” Yuta sighs as he sits up, holding onto Sicheng's lithe frame, praying that Sicheng’s propositioning doesn’t go down the gutter. “Just sleep the drinks off. And whatever you want to do, we can do it in the morning.”

 

“Okay, okay,” Sicheng pouts, finally cooperating, clinging onto Yuta's shoulders as he drags his feet behind him.

 

Yuta carries him to his room and then brings him to the bed, before leaving to grab a cup of water and some painkillers. For good measure, he also leaves the wastepaper basket beside the bed, just in case Sicheng intends to hurl.

 

Sicheng is burrowing into his blankets as Yuta says, “For your hangover,” setting down the pills next to the water.

 

A hand darts out from beneath the pillow to clutch at Yuta's sleeve, and he struggles to contain the thumping of his heart as Sicheng peeks up at him with rose-tinted cheeks. “Stay with me.”

 

Yuta's combating exhaustion and the inclinations of his own heart. It's a losing battle, and he gives in, says, “Okay.”

 

Sicheng reaches for him, gripping onto his waist as Yuta maneuvers onto the bed, beneath the sheets. He sighs as Sicheng entangles his legs with Yuta's, chin resting on Yuta's shoulder.

 

Despite it being four in the morning, Yuta's eyes stay wide open as he feels Sicheng's breathing tickle the hairs at the base of his neck, the contraction and expansion of his chest as he inhales and exhales on the beat.

 

It takes him far too long to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

It's sometime just before lunch when Yuta emerges into wakefulness again, head feeling distinctly fuzzy and body tender only in the way that sleeping at irregular hours would produce.

 

The wastepaper basket is missing, as are the pills and the contents of glass on the nightstand. Despite this, he feels the heavy weight against his back, the press of Sicheng's body against his own, their legs still entwined and Sicheng’s breath against the top of his spine.

 

He inhales sharply and lifts his head, shifting to look at the other. To his surprise, Sicheng's eyes flutter open as well and he cocks his head at Yuta. “Morning,” he says.

 

“Morning,” Yuta replies, a warm feeling in his chest expanding, like he’s swallowed a match. “Are you feeling okay?”

 

Sicheng cringes, his nose wrinkling, shaking his head, and Yuta laughs. “Better now. I threw up when I first woke up.”

 

“Why didn't you come get me?” Yuta asks. “I would’ve helped to clean you up.”

 

“Because you look too peaceful sleeping,” Sicheng says after a brief pause. “I didn't want to wake you up. Besides, I handled it just fine.”

 

There's that same sense of familiarity and deja vu again. Yuta ignores it and focuses on the fact that they're laying in the same bed, and Sicheng must have showered, because his hair has an added flounce to it, and he's wearing only a too-large t-shirt that slips off his shoulder, giving Yuta a peek of collarbone, and boxers.

 

It's too much, feeling their skin slide against each other's, and the way Sicheng's eyes flutter shut and he lets out a little sigh as Yuta tangles his hands in his hand and ruffles it.

 

His head and lungs feel like they're on fire, like he's just a run a marathon and his heart rate won't ever go down past 180 ever again.

 

Sicheng shifts closer so that their faces align.

 

There's a pause, and then Sicheng leans in, pressing his lips to the corner of Yuta's before pulling back.

 

“Was that okay?” Sicheng asks him.

 

Yuta nods mutely, not trusting his voice.

 

After a beat of hesitation, Sicheng leans over him to kiss him properly, hands tracing along his pulse point. Yuta feels the smirk on Sicheng's lips when his heartbeat jumps beneath his fingers. Yuta might be well and truly screwed, he thinks to himself as Sicheng nips at Yuta's lower lip and then swipes his tongue across it to soothe the bite.

 

They kiss lazily for a few more minutes before Sicheng shifts his weight, pulling Yuta on top of him, hitching an arm around Yuta's thigh. “Is this okay?” He asks again.

 

Yuta nods. “More than okay.”

 

Sicheng answers him by trailing his hands up the sides of Yuta's hips, and then under his shirt, up the front of his chest.

 

“Kiss me,” Yuta breathes. They've barely touched but it feels like he's already reduced to a state of begging.

 

Hands pause in their roaming before he slips them out. “Take your shirt off,” Sicheng orders.

 

“Only if you do, too,” Yuta retorts but complies, throwing the t-shirt on the ground next to Sicheng's bed.

 

Sicheng's pulling his own shirt off when Yuta sits back down on his lap. He rolls the shirt into a ball and then tosses it to land on top of Yuta's. Hands going to Yuta's waist, Yuta can see Sicheng swallow as he scans up his form, staring at him with something like reverence.

 

The noontime light streams in and basks Sicheng in stark white, light turning his eyes amber.

 

“Angel,” Yuta says impulsively.

 

The other has the gall to look surprised and confused at Yuta’s sudden interjection.

 

“You. You look like an angel,” he quickly clarifies, glancing down at Sicheng’s elegant neck and graceful collarbones, hoping he can’t see the frankness in Yuta’s eyes. “You're so pretty. Always so perfect.”

 

Sicheng might have blushed, the apple of his cheeks turning pink, and his eyes dart away from Yuta for a second. “I'm not. I'm just like anyone else.” A hand slips from Yuta's hip to unconsciously press to the puckered scar where the bullet wound had since begun to heal.

 

Reminded of the injury, Yuta tries to roll off Sicheng in alarm before Sicheng reaches back to grip his waist with renewed vigor, fingertips digging into the sides of his waist, keeping him in his lap. “Cheng, your scar…”

 

“I'm not going to snap like a twig just because I'm touching you,” he reassures him, leaning up to steal a kiss again. “I'm not delicate.”

 

He wasn't.

 

Sicheng might have looked it, all slender limbs and refined angles, but the slenderness was muscle. He was like barbed wire, thin and swaying with the force of a breeze, but touching him feels like his skin being sliced open. He flips them over so Yuta is laying on his back and pushes three fingers into Yuta's mouth while his tongue traces wet circles over his chest, smoothing over the places where he bites down so hard that bruises begin to form.

 

Sicheng's fingers take him apart slowly till he's half in delirium from the longing and the want, his free hand dragging along his inner thighs and pushing down their shorts. He finally takes his fingers out of Yuta’s mouth, leaving behind a trail of spit, and lines up their cocks within his grip. Yuta's going to lose his mind. Sicheng likes it slow, rubbing a thumb just under the tip of his dick, making him jolt his hips up, searching for anything other than the slow grinding pace he has set. Sicheng likes to hear him, he learns, when he twists his head to bring a pillow to his mouth to muffle his moaning, only for Sicheng to shove it away, hissing out, “Let me hear you”.

 

Sicheng stoppers his cry with a kiss when Yuta comes first, his tears and spit smearing across their lips.

 

He follows soon after, spilling onto his stomach and then collapsing on top of Yuta, panting heavily into his shoulder.

 

They stay like that, quiet huffs of breath and low groans the only noises in the room for a few moments, before Sicheng detaches himself gingerly. “Let’s wash up,” he says.

 

Yuta lets himself be pulled into the bathroom, into this quietly domestic bubble, the hiss of the water against the shower tiles and Sicheng’s quiet humming filling his head.

 

This is not some sort of cheesy, overproduced shower sex scene from a movie where they go for round two in the bathroom with playful nipping kisses that bite the way the droplets of water do-- the two of them don’t touch with anything but their hands. Sicheng massages into Yuta’s scalp with his own shampoo and they just wash each other free of the sweat and come.

 

Sicheng steps out first, Yuta shutting off the water and following him, taking the towel Sicheng offered him from off the rack. Sicheng pats his face dry and then wraps his towel around his waist; Yuta does the same and finds another towel to dry his hair with.

 

Meanwhile, Sicheng stoops over the sink and wipes condensation from the mirror, pushing his hair back with a headband and then patting his face down with toner, then moisturizer.

 

Yuta is tucked into his side, their height gap evident, doodling their initials and some smiley faces into the foggy mirror.

 

“Want some?” Sicheng offers Yuta some face lotion. For no other reason than the fact that it belongs to Sicheng, Yuta nods.

 

Instead of squeezing some out for Yuta to apply to his own face, Sicheng smears it on his hands first before reaching up to pat the lotion into Yuta's skin, the cream a cool salve to the way his cheeks heat up again at Sicheng’s touch.

 

“Thanks, I love you,” Yuta says as Sicheng returns to his much more intricate skincare routine.

 

To his surprise, the other freezes up, the lines of muscle visible on his back bunching and tensing. “What did you say?”

 

“I said thanks.” Yuta feels puzzled. The water droplets are starting to dry on his skin and he shivers slightly.

 

“After that,” he clarifies, capping whichever bottle of serum he had just finished applying on his face. Sicheng reaches behind Yuta to open the door and breezes past him, down the hall, into his bedroom.

 

“I was just saying--” Yuta tries to correct the statement, following him in. _It was casual_ was on the tip of his tongue, but something about the lie made him swallow it down instead.

 

“Well, I wish you wouldn't, then,” Sicheng replies, letting the towel on his waist drop to his feet and then rummaging through his bedsheets for his discarded shorts.

 

“Cheng, I don't see why you're upset,” Yuta says, trying to keep his voice even. “I say it all the time to you--”

 

Sicheng cuts him off, vehemently tugging his shirt over his head. “Don't fall in love with me.”

 

Yuta sputters. “Cheng, I thought you knew.”

 

“I do,” Sicheng shakes his head, not meeting his eyes as he pulls a pair of sweatpants over his legs as well. “I'm sorry, but I'm not going to entertain it further.”

 

“But why,” Yuta breathes, a pitiful shudder tracing down his bare spine, a droplet of water accompanying it. “Cheng, aren't we friends? Haven’t we known each other for nearly four years now?

 

“Exactly,” Sicheng replies. “We’re friends. Friends who live together. That’s all for me.”

 

“And can you honestly tell me you don't feel more for me?” Yuta pleads.

 

Sicheng's eyes meet Yuta's for a brief moment before he looks away. “I can't,” he whispered. “Because I do.”

 

“So why can’t we, then? What's wrong with us?” He demanded. “Why can't we just be?”

 

“Because I like what we are right now more,” Sicheng begins. “I don't know anything about you as a partner or you as a lover.”

 

“I don't know either,” Yuta tries to rationalize, grabbing his own clothes off the floor and putting them on. “But that'll be normal, wouldn't it? We'd work it out together.”

 

Sicheng starts shaking his head again. “Yuta, _no_. I'm not doing this.”

 

“Why not? Cheng, _please_ , give me one good reason.”

 

Yuta’s pulling his shirt over his head and suddenly, Sicheng's right in front of him, gripping onto his shoulders. “Fine, I’ll tell you the real reason why. But, Yuta. Please. You can't tell _anyone_ else about what I’m going to tell you.”

 

“Tell them what?” Yuta's voice is equally hushed.

 

“That I'm…” Sicheng trails off, swallows, looks around the room, anywhere but Yuta. “Promise me.”

 

“Cheng, I promise,” Yuta says. _I’d promise you anything_.

 

“I'm-- Yuta, I’m Winwin.” Sicheng is chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Please don't tell anyone. Can't you see now, why I can't just date you?”

 

Yuta is pretty sure his jaw unhinges as he takes the time to process it. Process the fact that the man he’s been in love with the last three years is also the hero he’s been battling against for the same amount of time.

 

It makes more sense than he realizes, now that he knows. Sicheng’s grace and agility and flexibility, which Yuta always attributed to a dancer background. The way Sicheng was so defensive of the city's law enforcement. The way Sicheng always came home at strange hours with strange injuries that Yuta himself nurses.

 

His stomach drops further as his mind goes that extra step further. The way Sicheng always returns home with injuries inflicted by _him_. How ironic, that he loves one aspect of this man so much, but hates another and all he had to stand for.

 

“Cheng, I have to go,” Yuta says, pulling away from Sicheng, removing the fingers still clenching in his t-shirt, pacing into his room and swapping out shorts for sweatpants and throwing a windbreaker over his body.

 

He grabs a backpack and opens a drawer, shoves a handful of clothes in. He grabs his phone and charger before zipping the bag up and coming out the door.

 

Sicheng is sitting on the couch in the living room, lower lip raw and red from being gnawed on. “Yuta…” he says, getting to his feet. “Can we talk? Please?”

 

Distantly, as if through water, Yuta hears himself repeating with a good deal more calmness than he felt, “I have to go,” as he slips on his sneakers and then throws open the door, power-walking down the stairs.

 

As he pedals away on his bike, he hears footsteps running after him, and a shout of, “Yuta, wait!” that he ignores, face and eyes burning.

 

* * *

 

Kun looks rather surprised to see Yuta standing there in front of his door, looking for all the world like a teenaged runaway.

 

Yuta's far more surprised at the state of undress his boss is in, but not enough to be ungrateful as Kun takes one look at his pitiful state and then waves him into the apartment, gesturing for him to take a seat on the couch.

 

“Sorry,” he says absently, hovering around the kitchen as he sprinkles tea leaves into a cup and then pours hot water over it. “I was having some time alone with Taeil. Sorry. This is a bit improper, isn't it? My apologies. I'll go get dressed.”

 

Yuta takes the cup from him, and then promptly bursts into tears.

 

“Hey,” Kun takes the cup from his hands and claps Yuta on his back. He sets the cup down on the coffee table and then hugs Yuta properly.

 

He sobs into Kun's bare shoulder, and even in this state at the pain of rejection and how horrifying Sicheng's revelation was to him, he mentally thanks Kun for simply letting him in.

 

“Darling, who is it?” Taeil emerges from behind a door, a bathrobe tied at his waist. “Oh. Hello, Yuta.”

 

Taeil doesn't sound surprised at all, and Yuta only cries harder. “I'm so stupid,” he hiccups. “I slept with him. I should've known I wouldn't be able to handle it emotionally.”

 

There's a shifting of pressure behind him on the couch and Yuta feels hands patting his back in the next second. “Oh, Yuta,” Taeil hums. “Don't feel sorry about that. You don't get to control your feelings.”

 

“We talked after and he said he couldn't date me because he's--” Yuta trails off again, sniffling. He opens his mouth to say, _he's Winwin_ , but he can't bring himself to. The fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt. The eyes that stared anywhere but him, as if ashamed. The singular word falling from his lips-- _Please_.

 

“--he doesn't like me like that,” Yuta finally lies, wiping off his tears with a final hiccup.

 

“Drink some tea. It'll help you calm down,” Kun advises, pressing the cup to Yuta's hand again. “So you just came here after he rejected you?”

 

Yuta nods wordlessly. “I just didn't think I could stay at his place when he's… I'm sorry for interrupting.”

 

Taeil is the one who says, “Don't worry. We've got enough room for an extra person, right, Kun?”

 

The CEO nods. “Of course. Feel welcome to stay as long as you want. You still have to talk to him, though. It's not like your name isn't going to be off that lease.”

 

“Right, right,” Yuta nods, ducking his head. “I just… I'm not ready to face him yet.”

 

“That's fine,” Taeil waves it off. “The guest room is the first room on your right. Bathroom is across the hall.”

 

Kun gets up, looking far too dignified for someone in only a pair of sweatpants. “I'll go change,” he says. “Yuta, I'm sorry about what happened.”

 

Yuta nods and lets Taeil guide him to his feet and open the door to a neatly made guest room. “You'll get better, yeah? Maybe not right now but someday. You're only semi-invincible human.”

 

That provokes the slightest of smiles from Yuta. “Thank you, Taeil.”

 

“You're such a strong person, you know that, right?” Taeil claps him on the back. “And not just because I injected you with experimental serum and now you have accelerated healing.”

 

* * *

 

Oh, how Yuta wishes that were truer, now that he was getting the living daylights beaten out of him in front of TV cameras and a blazing and rare mid-autumn sun that refracted off the glass buildings. Winwin is relentless, and he's so much more aggressive than usual, or maybe Yuta just gave it up easy to the hero who was inevitably sent after him, knowing now who he was.

 

Kun hadn't wanted to send him out again so soon after nursing a broken heart; Yuta argued for himself that having something to do would have numbed that burn somewhat. With some insistence from Taeil, Kun finally relented and sent him to deliver a message to the city council. The usual reminders. Details of corrupt dealings. Names. Amounts of cash transferred. A subtle insistence they step down.

 

It was almost too easy to get in and leave the envelope on the mayor's desk, even though he does it in broad daylight, fully suited. The reason why was revealed as Yuta emerged from the city hall-- Winwin was waiting for him, white cape swooping behind him like angel wings.

 

His heart thudding, Yuta raised his hands above his head, no witty banter this time. He's so scared his voice will give him away. He's terrified his legs will soften and give out beneath him.

 

It's the first time he's seen Sicheng in ten days. Yuta counted up every single one. He wonders how everyone-- but mostly how Sicheng would react if he pulls off his mask right now.

 

He doesn't get to act on the impulse. The next moment, he's being tackled to the pavement and Winwin is clawing at him so viciously Yuta has no choice but to raise his arms up to block.

 

They roll down the city hall stairs and then Winwin flies up a foot or so before dropping, slamming him into the pavement hard enough he feels something crack and there’s the acrid taste of blood pooling up into his mouth.

 

This is a spectacle to them. He hears someone cheer in the background as Sicheng keeps punching him. Yuta musters up the strength, spitting out the blood from within his mouth onto the concrete before he lifts his knee and jabs it up into Sicheng's abdomen, propelling his assailant away.

 

Crawling to his feet, he wipes the trickle of bloody spit from his mouth. “If it's a show you want, just say so,” he throws out. A challenge. Yuta shifts from foot to foot, trying to regain his balance, hoping his cracked ribs and whatever blood vessels had ruptured from the blow would heal quickly, thanks to Taeil’s formula.

 

Winwin scoffs. “I want scum like you _gone_ ,” he snarls, lunging for Yuta again.

 

They’ve both slipped up and their carefully crafted dance is out of sync now. They're stepping on each other's toes and twirling in the places where there's meant to be lifts and dodging a moment too late for extended fists.

 

Yuta takes it the best he can, trying to repel Sicheng, trying to block, going on the defensive.

 

It's not enough. By now their performance, their duet, should have finished, but Sicheng has him backed against the wall, shoulders heaving, but triumph suffusing his every line.

 

Yuta's so tired.

 

That's the only reason he justifies the way he slumps against the wall, no move made to stop Sicheng as he reaches up, and then tears the mask off of Yuta's face.

 

The cameras flash, jumping in for the moment when the menace of the bourgeoisie, public enemy number one, is revealed, and Yuta tilts his head back till it hits the wall, letting the blood trickle from his mouth, eyes hooded, a smirk playing on his lips. He exaggerates the image of him-- dangerous, seductive, unrepentant, a modern-day Lucifer. Brought low and helpless, just as they wanted, but with none of the scorn or the impenitence wiped away.

 

Picture perfect. He hears the buzz and the clatter of flashbulbs, a cacophony within his head.

 

In front of him, Sicheng takes a step back, dropping the mask he'd taken from Yuta.

 

He thinks he hears a soft, “How?” from Sicheng's mouth before the blaring of sirens becomes evident. Loud shouting. Sicheng stepping back. His head's shoved against the brick and his arms are forced behind his back. There's a cold finality to the click of handcuffs, and a frog-march past the sea of hungry eyes to a waiting cop car.

 

That's the last thing he registers before he faints.

 

* * *

 

Yuta wakes up staring up at a white ceiling.

 

“He's conscious,” someone announces. “You can come in to question him now.”

 

A polished voice, one unfamiliar to him, says, “Thank you, Nurse Kim.”

 

There's the scraping of a chair and then a face comes into frame. “Nakamoto Yuta,” he says. Yuta eyes the man critically. He has brown hair that’s pushed out of his face, and he’s dressed in a sharp suit. His face is pleasant enough, hooded eyes and a tapering chin, but it’s all offset by the glint of the badge on his jacket.

 

“I'd say nice to meet you, but honestly, not really,” Yuta croaks out. “Don't know who you are. Not an ideal situation to be in, honestly.”

 

“You’ve been out for two days, Yuta. I'm Seo Youngho. I'm with the Neo City Police Department and I'm heading the Commission for Investigation into Vigilante Activities.”

 

“Get on with the gloating so I can get the court dates sooner,” Yuta grumbles, trying to sit up. It's futile; he's been strapped to the hospital gurney.

 

Seo Youngho shakes his head. “I'm not here to gloat. Despite what you might think, Yuta, I'm just here to ensure justice is served.”

 

Yuta can't make any of various rude gestures right now to convey his disdain for how prettily artificial that statement is, so he just settles for rolling his eyes. “Sure, and I'm the most upstanding member of the League of Heroes to ever exist.”

 

“Yuta, please don’t make this harder on yourself.” Youngho’s tone is patronizing. “Speaking of which, I'm meant to deliver you into the custody of the League of Heroes.”

 

“Fun,” Yuta sighs. “How are you planning on doing this, by the way? Wheeling me out in a hospital bed?”

 

“Don't stress over that, we’ll handle it,” the man replies. There's knocking at the door and he says, “Perfect timing. Come in!”

 

In walks another three officers, and tailing them in a pristine white suit is Sicheng. His mask is on, and the cape flutters limply behind him as he stops in front of the bed. Yuta can’t tell what he’s thinking; the mask covers up more than half of his face. He lets himself look, filling in Winwin’s features mentally with Sicheng’s, from the sharp eyes to the graceful nose and full lips.

 

Everything seems so obvious now.

 

Sicheng leans over him to undo the restraints, and then the officers flank him, as he slides out of bed, onto his feet. He’s still in his suit from before, tattered black fabric marking the places where he’s been thrown or hit.

 

He lets out a breath of relief. At least his phone, his things with his contacts from the vigilantes, are all at Kun and Taeil’s place. No doubt in the two days he’s been knocked out a subpoena has been issued; he’s grateful that none of the others would have been exposed, at the very least.

 

They give him the bare minimum decency of letting him put on his boots before snapping the handcuffs back on leading him out.

 

There’s so many cameras around in front of the hospital, the flurry of the flash glinting and reflecting off of the microphones shoved into his face and the hood of the police cars and Sicheng’s eyes. Yuta gives them his most unrepentant smile as Youngho forges a path through the crowd of witnesses and spectators to an unmarked car, Yuta being unceremoniously escorted into the back seat with Youngho on one side and Sicheng on his other.

 

He’s buckled in again through a team effort between Sicheng and Youngho, the latter ensuring that they don’t touch at all, and then the car starts, pulling out from the curb. The crowd of media tries to follow after them in the rear mirror, but yellow-vested officers gesture emphatically, and the surge mostly stops after that.

 

“What music do you guys want?” the officer driving asks as they turn out of the hospital parking lot.

 

“Not the time for it right now, Jae,” Youngho says sharply, shaking his head.

 

“Okay.” With that, the car lapses into a miserably awkward silence punctuated only by said officer, _Jae_ , humming under his breath.

 

Yuta elects to look out the window instead, his vision narrowing down so much he nearly jumps when Sicheng’s profile appears in his periphery. “I’m sorry,” he breathed out in an undertone, too low for Youngho to hear but just enough for Yuta to catch the wisps of his words. “I hadn’t known it was you.”

 

“Don’t pretend to care when you don’t,” Yuta snaps at him. “It’s because of you that I’m here, anyways.”

 

Sicheng flinches, opening his mouth, undoubtedly to defend himself or else in protest.

 

“You can’t think you’d escape justice so easily, Yuta,” interjected Youngho with something like pity.

 

It makes his hackles rise. “Funny how your so-called ‘justice’ turns a blind eye towards the wealthy and powerful, then,” he snipes.

 

Further discussion is cut off when Jae parks a bit more roughly than necessary just then, jolting to a stop in front of a radio station. “Welcome to the League of Heroes,” he says.

 

Youngho pulls open the door and offers his hand to help Yuta down. Yuta ignores it.

 

Sicheng comes to stand beside Yuta’s other elbow, a firm grasp on it, pulling Yuta in towards the building, Youngho following right behind them and flanking Yuta to his left.

 

Sicheng, however, instead of leading them through the doors, takes them around the side. Placing a palm on a discolored brick, he says, “Member Winwin.”

 

What Yuta thought was a power box on the sidewalk expands out of the ground, the covering sliding away to reveal a hollow chamber within.

 

“I have a guest today,” Winwin announces as he tugs Yuta into the box none too gently, holding him in place as the cover slides shut.

 

With a hydraulic whirring, the entire floor beneath them descends. After a few moments, the motion stops and the intercom crackles. “T. Y. wants to see him, I suppose.”

 

“You bet, Snoopy,” Sicheng replies. “Which meeting room is it?”

 

“Hm, the big one. The giant conference hall he used when he met with Exo a year ago or so,” replied the voice.

 

“Thanks, man,” Sicheng replies, nodding at Youngho and Yuta. “Follow me, please.”

 

Yuta finds himself missing the feeling of Sicheng’s fingers on his arm despite himself when Youngho replaces his grasp, and Sicheng strides down the hall with obvious authority.

 

They bypass several stairwells and turns before Sicheng knocks on an imposing wooden door at the end of a dead-end hallway.

 

Immediately, a voice replies, “Come in.”

 

Sicheng pushes open the door, holding it for Yuta and Youngho before he shuts it behind them. Youngho gestures Yuta to a seat, and then situates himself next to him; Sicheng sits on his other side.

 

At the head of the round table is a figure in a black mesh mask with a black and silver suit, posture rigid, so still Yuta thinks it’s a sculpture at first. This, then, he thinks to himself, must be T. Y. Founder of Neo City’s League of Heroes. Reclusive, mysterious, wealthy, and powerful, with telekinetic powers.

 

Then he speaks, his gravelly voice as imposing as the rest of him. “Nakamoto Yuta. Alias: Mayhem. Your moniker is quite fitting, to be honest. Wanted for obstruction of justice, damage of private property, larceny, breaking and entering…” he lists off. “Shall I continue?”

 

“Is this some sort of kangaroo court?” Yuta demanded, getting to his feet. “Aren’t you supposed to be just? Or is it only when it benefits you? No one wants to give a petty vigilante who’s actually trying to dismantle a system of corruption a platform, right? Might as well make him disappear?”

 

Youngho and Sicheng tug him back down. Yuta obeys, heart thudding, as the man tilts his head towards them. Despite his bravado, his hands were damp and his breath was starting to come out in shuddery gasps.

 

“You have the right sort of ideas and mind,” the figure conceded. “Just the wrong way of going about it. If you weren’t who you were, I would have been inclined to offer you a place with us.”

 

Sicheng’s hand tightens involuntarily on Yuta’s, and if he weren’t so jittery, he would have made a move to yank it away, but even this barest of contact, hand against a glove, comforted him in this moment.

 

“That being said, Winwin managed to convince me to give you a second chance at life,” he said, steepling his fingers. “Of course, we could turn you back over to the police department. But we won’t, with the stipulation you’ll move out of this city and quit being a vigilante for good. It’s your choice.”

 

It gets so quiet that Yuta can hear his own breath, each inhale and exhale. Take his chances with the police force he’s pissed off for so long. Or be left alone, on the condition that he leaves behind everything he’s known and loved.

 

He sighs. He opens his mouth to speak. He’s decided.

 

* * *

 

Elyxion is a lovely city, glimmering skyscrapers of the downtown blending into cozy houses of the suburbs. It’s prosperous and welcoming, despite the first impressions of busy chaos it gave due to its sheer vastness. Disembarking from the train station, Yuta reflects back as he waits for an Uber. Neo City had been home to Yuta for twenty four long years, yet, as he gives the driver directions to the little townhome on 721 April Street, he thinks he could very well make himself a home here. In a city where justice was properly served and enforced, away from the corruption and the heartache.

 

He knocked; nearly immediately, a man answered, greeting him before offering to help move his luggage in. They introduced themselves to each other, and then lifted the suitcases to the empty room on the second floor. He was left to unpack alone, with the other popping in an hour or so later with offerings of ice cream.

 

His roommate is named Kim Jongin, and though he thinks he must have heard the name because of how familiar it sounds, he can’t recall for the life of him where. Jongin is a tall, friendly man only a year older than him. With a ready smile and an inclination towards well-meant chaos, he’s already befriended Yuta in the scant week since he had moved in despite both of their jobs, and the kitchen has been in danger of being set aflame nearly twice through their sorry attempts at cooking. Needless to say, they’ve resorted to ordering takeout.

 

Kun has found him a job as a receptionist, writing him a glowing recommendation to the CEO of the Zhang Group-- a leader in humanitarian efforts and publishing. This was the place, Kun had mentioned in an aside to him, that Exo, that famed vigilante group that cleaned up Elyxion, operated from. And though Yuta is forbidden to return to his Sherwood days, it’s here inside the midtown high-rise that he earns his keep now, greeting people with smiles and directing callers and visitors alike to their respective departments.

 

Wednesday noontime is slow, and Yuta is picking at his nails when the phone rings again. With practiced fluidity, he unhooks it and says, “Hello, this is the Zhang Group, I'm your receptionist, Nakamoto Yuta. How may I help you today?”

 

“Yuta,” comes a deep voice from the other side. “I missed you.”

 

He nearly drops the phone in shock. “Sicheng?” he says incredulously.

 

“Yuta,” replies the other side. “I know you’re going to move on, but can I please just say I miss you? You don’t need to say it back.”

 

Yuta hopes Sicheng can’t hear the breath he’s letting out. “Okay.”

 

“You never even said goodbye. You just went back home and then the next day, you were gone. And then the moving truck came and now it’s just me alone.”

 

Yuta listens to Sicheng speak. It still hurts, but that's to be expected-- after all, he was in love. And being audience to his plainative words, Yuta admits to himself he might still be a little in love with Sicheng even now. But maybe healing wasn't about suppressing the emotions till he couldn't feel them anymore.

 

“Sicheng,” he suddenly says. “C-can I ask you something?”

 

Sicheng immediately replies with an affirmation, and Yuta continues.

 

“When you took me to see T. Y…. he said that you managed to convince him to give me a second chance. Why would you do that for me? Even knowing what you knew about me then?”

 

Sicheng pauses, and Yuta can hear his soft breathing over the line. It fades into nothing and for a moment Yuta is afraid Sicheng has hung up before he takes a fortifying breath. “I did it because I love you.”

 

Plain and simple, the confession they never made towards each other flows easily from Sicheng. The words crack something beneath Yuta's sternum.

 

When it's evident Yuta's just waiting for Sicheng to continue, he says, “Shit, I’m sorry, Yuta. I wanted to tell you so many times, but I always thought about how I would put you at jeopardy because of my job.”

 

“It didn’t matter in the end, did it?” Yuta responds. To know Sicheng and he felt the same things, but they'd never talked about it. And now it's too late and Yuta's hours and miles away from the arms of the boy he loves. “We were both too scared to be honest with each other, and that’s why we never ended up together.”

 

“I know,” Sicheng sighs, and Yuta feels the misery in his voice as clearly as its echo in his own ribcage.

 

“I always kept it a secret because you told me you were a police detective,” Yuta continued. “I knew you’d be ashamed of my work and try to make me quit. And I always knew there would be a chance I would end up in jail, or plastered all over the news, or in a morgue. I could never have done that to you, but I just never would have thought the person who’s the one most likely to put me in any of those places would have been you.”

 

He hears Sicheng draw in a sharp breath. “Yuta… genuinely, I’m sorry.”

 

“Me too, Sicheng,” he replies.

 

Sicheng hums softly under his breath before he asks, “But we’ll be honest with each other now, won’t we?”

 

He sounds so hopeful. Yuta chokes down a lump in his throat. “I hope so.”

 

“Me too, Yuta.”

 

With that, the call disconnects, and Yuta discreetly rubs at his eyes before sitting up straight again, hoping no one has seen him. From his position at the front desk, he sees the revolving door produce a polished man in a suit who walks in with a sense of utterly belonging. The man peers at him, and then nods to himself.

 

He comes up to the desk, and Yuta’s eyes widen as he recognizes the dimpled countenance of CEO Zhang. He stands hastily to bow, before the other man says, “There’s no need for that, Yuta.”

 

“Mr. Zhang,” Yuta says, head still racing from his earlier phone conversation, trying to gather the last of his wits about him.

 

“Please, calling me Yixing is fine,” the man says, offering a hand to shake. “Yuta, I’ve heard a lot about you from Kun.”

 

Yuta nods, accepting the handshake. It's firm and assertive. His own hand is clammy.  “All good things, I hope.”

 

“He said you were very promising and talented,” Yixing discloses.

 

“Thank you, Mr-- Yixing,” Yuta corrects himself with a nervous laugh.

 

Yixing nods in acknowledgement. “That being said, Kun also shared with me in confidence, off the official documents, that it’s a pity you hadn’t been able to see your vision of Neo City come to fruition.”

 

He pauses. “I was a vigilante, sir,” Yuta confesses after a beat of silence.

 

“Kun's told me that too. It's a shame what happened but I think here in Elyxion, you’d be a great help in helping keep the city free of violence and corruption.”

 

“I-I don’t see what you mean, sir,” Yuta stammers, wetting his lower lip in nervousness. “I was barred from vigilantism for the rest of my life.”

 

“Good thing it’s not called vigilantism here anymore,” Yixing whispers conspiratorially with a smile. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a business card with a pin attached to it, setting them on Yuta’s desk.

 

With trembling fingers, Yuta accepts the items, inspecting the hexagonal decal on both, a stylization of the letters, _E_ , _X_ , and _O_ , the number on the card. Beneath it is a silver line of compact text: _Neo Culture Technology_.

 

“What's this?” Yuta asks him slowly, running a thumb across the card.

 

“Exo managed to rise up against the corruption and we're still here today to maintain it, even if we've since melted into a less visible role to maintain the peace. What's on that card-- we've begun a new program, Neo Culture Technology, which will be a part of that. We're recruiting heroes. Vigilantes. Reformed villains. Practically anyone who wants to provide a better life. The members of NCT are employed as engineers and lawkeepers and doctors in order to ensure that our city's always safe and prosperous and growing.”

 

Yuta is floored, turning the card over in his hand. “Sir, I--”

 

“You don't need to answer me immediately. Just promise me you’ll think about it, Yuta. Justice doesn’t serve itself, even in a place like Elyxion,” Yixing says, and then turns on his heel, pushing past one of the glass doors leading into the building.

 

Yuta watches him go, turning the pin over between his thumb and forefinger. _Neo Culture Technology_. For some reason, he feels like this isn’t what T. Y. specified when he offered Yuta a second chance, but he finds himself more than willing to take it and see where it led.

 

Yuta picks up his phone, reading off the numbers on the card.


End file.
